The end of a too-fast love affair. And don't blame CES, because, hey, four years is a long time.

This isn't because you let me sleep in on Monday, but that was the last straw. I didn't want to write this. I can't believe I'm doing it. And I love you. Goddamnit, I love you. I can't imagine life without you. But four years after we took our vows and signed the two-year, non-refundable data-and-voice plan that binded us, it's time you know how I really feel about you.

And you started off so cute. More than cute. You were seductive. Sheer eye candy, but sharp and ambitious, too. Yet somehow you were human, softer than anything I'd seen before. Bold. Back then and even now, resolve-weakening. You were all anybody talked about, and you still are. But I know I need to do this, even as you sit there at the kitchen table, your glassy-smooth face reflecting the wind and the leaves outside, the way it did the manbreasts on that T-shirted turk when we first met. That young man who set us up: definitely not a genius, but sure knew what he was doing, generally. God, you were beautiful then. I'd never seen anything like it. And the way you responded to my touch — life-changing.

And with age has come beauty. Less curvy, sharper lines. You're smarter, too. And thin! Who in his right mind would want to give up a thing like you?

Except that you come at a cost. Every time we upgrade, you want more: more money for the networking, and then you weren't around to take my calls, your lines were tied up, because everyone else was getting their own networks. So I paid top price, and now you're tied up again, yet you still cheapen yourself to everyone else a few months later. Then what? You tell me to go for the 4, you're a 4 now, you have more to offer — and with more need, of course. Your face is too delicate; you're dropped once and you shatter. Your camera, you told me I wouldn't need any other lenses, but you still refuse to focus enough.

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And I'm supposed to be happy with this? I have needs, too!

Lately, it's because I've felt more like a business partner than a lover. You've gotten more obsessed with ownership. Property. Some days, I can't even believe the shit that comes out of your mouth. Telling me what I can see and who I can listen to, and when. Forcing me to pay to tether you. My friends jailbroken friends? They got that way for free. But you? You shut down at the first sign of conflict, bricking up, making me completely restore our relationship at the slightest hint of the unfamiliar. Only Gates would do that to a lover.

Four years on Sunday. It's hard to fathom. I thought you were the one — the one who could change everything, the one who could make me believe. I thought we could settle down, maybe have a few Apps of our own. Where did everything go wrong? Maybe I'm the problem. Maybe you're right, and I don't need to share my music with more than five friends. Who knows.

Thing is, I genuinely love you. Yet more and more these days, I hate myself for it.

Like all bad relationships, the paradox is the truth. I got exactly what I wanted — a sharp, ambitious, desirable partner. A capable counterpart. But the girl I wanted turned into a monster. If I'm being honest, a lot of this is your family. I mean, your dad. Jesus. Guy beats cancer and suddenly he's Moses. "This way out of Perdition, this way to the Promised Land. This way to the gift shop." I mean, don't get me wrong. The man is an (actual) genius. The genes he's given you: staggering. And I can't pretend that he hasn't been good to me — he has. But, come on, the antenna thing? And then having my girlfriend's dad telling me I don't know how to hold her when she can't fulfill my basic needs, thinking his daughter is hotter than I do? Too much musk in that saloon.

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And he's psychotic! Another man gets a look at your new body before I do — fine, whatever, they're only looking — and then your father has the cops break down his door? I just can't do it. You both leave me no choice.

You want me to be really honest? Fine: This is really about what you do to me when we're together. The man I become when I'm around you — he's hideous. He is the amalgamation of all the worst parts of me. Where's my pride? My dignity? For some reason, when you're with me — and you are always with me these days — I transform: aloof adult human being to wheezing teenage sociopath.

And I admit it: I've become obsessed with knowing where you are, what you're eating, who you're with — like some doctor with an invalid, your status is my happiness. It's not that I was guiltless before you; I just had other business to attend to. I called this "my life." And I'm not the only one like this with monsters like you, but you just bring out the worst in more people, more than any of the others. Even that BlackBerry girl, that goddamn Jezebel.

At this point, it's just too hard to justify my obsession anymore. I love you, but there's too much going on: Death panels. Unemployment. John Boehner's radioactive glowing skin. Things are happening. And frankly, I feel betrayed. You were supposed to keep me tuned-in. You were supposed to be a tool for good. Instead, actual birds are falling from the sky and all I get is Angry Birds. I'm a grown man. And I need to start acting like one. I feel like it's time for me to Google that shit, on something other than my phone. See what it means these days.

Also, I contracted Sprint from an EVO. Just thought you should know.

And don't forget to tell your old man that he should rethink his musical obsessions. Honestly, Bob Dylan probably thinks he's an asshole.